


kisses are better fate than wisdom

by notyourmanicpixiedreamgirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:45:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourmanicpixiedreamgirl/pseuds/notyourmanicpixiedreamgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“since feeling is first<br/>who pays any attention<br/>to the syntax of things<br/>will never wholly kiss you;</p><p>wholly to be a fool<br/>while Spring is in the world</p><p>my blood approves,<br/>and kisses are better fate<br/>than wisdom<br/>lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry<br/>—the best gesture of my brain is less than<br/>your eyelids’ flutter which says</p><p>we are for each other: then<br/>laugh, leaning back into my arms<br/>for life’s not a paragraph</p><p>And death i think is no parenthesis”</p><p>- e.e. Cummings</p>
            </blockquote>





	kisses are better fate than wisdom

          Words were Lydia Martin’s favorite form of warfare in the strenuous struggle one called life. She honed them carefully with subtle connotations, wrapped in false kindnesses, topped off with her sharpest smile and most flattering shade of lipstick. The social politics of Beacon Hills High School was a dangerous game, one she loathed playing yet one necessary to survive and master its petty hierarchy.

          However, she found that they could also be havens. Most often in the form of literature. The classics were her favorites, a time machine of sorts, due to their attention to detail and commentary of social issues and rules at the time. It wasn’t romantic thoughts or misplaced nostalgia for an unknown time that made her so fond of them; it was purely historical and vivid. She could lose herself for hours in the elaborate layers of Raskolnikov and his madness or Shelley’s magnum opus, yet an understanding of poetry evaded her. No, that wasn’t quite the proper way to phrase it—it was more that she lacked an emotional response.

          But how could anyone have expected her to be moved by something that could disregard syntax so carelessly, so haphazardly, to further its own selfish means? It lacked the structure that had been ingrained into her since before she had first picked up a number two pencil. Reading it pained her at times as words jumped off cliffs, only to land mid sentence onto the next life without explanation. Everything about it was scrambled and irrational, despite literature professors around the globe trying to make sense of its varying forms through lectures covering blank verse, symbolism, and extended metaphors. To be rather frank, she would much sooner read _War and Peace_ in its original Russian—a tedious task, but one she was capable of due to a bet made five years previous with her misinformed, absentee father—and leave the house with chipped nails then analyze yet another inane verse.

          Of course, her AP Literature teacher could not give less of a damn about the opinion of yet another one of hundreds of his too-damn-smart-for-their-own-good students. Even if this one particular student had scored an eight on her first essay and was well on her way on getting a five on the exam in May. The painfully crafted syllabus, known for its iron-clad rigidity, clear stated in bolded letters that they would be studying poetry for the next month. Because of this, rain, shine, or show, Lydia Martin’s second period AP Lit class would be debating and deducing William Shakespeare’s sexuality and Emily Dickinson’s depression, displayed through their work, as well as other ridiculous assumptions gathered through overthinking and clichéd declarations throughout the history of literature.

          “Class, I am well-aware that today is Valentine’s Day and a Friday so you are all very eager to get the hell out of here, forget your homework, and fornicate this weekend with your significant other,” the teacher said bluntly as he cut into a piece of Pepto-Bismol pink construction paper. The rusty scissors made a harsh sound that rang in Lydia’s ears. “However, the College Board doesn’t give a hoot about your romantic plans and neither do I. Your exam is fast approaching and my syllabus as a reputation to uphold.” The class looked around to exchange confused glances. No one had suspected that any teacher would be cruel enough to assign homework on today of all days. And, of course, not a single one of them had even bothered to look at the syllabus. “But in the spirit of the holiday, you will be assigned love poems. Each one of you will draw a poem out this hat,” he showcased a black top hat sitting on the podium, “that is, once I’m done cutting out these out, and write a paper in MLA format with a minimum of four pages, on the speaker’s perspective on love and the MOWAW”— _meaning of the work as a whole_ —“and how it is displayed through literary devices. I will be expecting your own personal commentary on this as well just to make this fun for you and light reading for me. To be fair, I’ll let you complain to your heart’s content until I finish this up.”

          The class let out a chorus of ‘are you kidding me?’ and ‘fuck this,’ then groups broke out into complaints about interrupted dates or a lack of plans. Lydia avoided the conversation of the cheerleader and student body officer—girls she had once been on decent speaking terms with, that is, before the werewolves and the corpses—to her right chirping about their dinner plans, unable to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She had not taken AP Literature in fear of outing herself as a genius to the entire student body to have to endure this much pettiness and whining. However, she wanted to actually enjoy her senior year and Allison would’ve wanted her to enjoy it too which was why she had taken every advanced class she had been dying to since her freshman year and smiled sincerely through the heavy workload. Sometimes she could hear her best friend laughing as she hummed through AP Calculus or receiving yet another one hundred percent on an AP Chem test, calling her a nerd with all the love and pride in the world—

          A sharp yet barely noticeable poke to the back of her head interrupted her thoughts. She looked back, ready to smite whoever had bothered her, only to see Stiles with a sheepish grin on his face. She couldn’t help but to wonder if he had a date as he pointed to the ground where a poorly crafted paper airplane had fallen. She picked it up and gave him a look asking ‘what do you expect me to do with this?’ He pantomimed unfolding the paper and she obliged him to find a small note in his sloppy handwriting. How junior high of him.

_So does the illustrious Lydia Martin have Valentine’s Day plans?_

          She hadn’t thought about that. When was the last time she was single, or at least dateless, on Valentine’s Day? With all that had happened in the fall with Aiden and Allison, she hadn’t even thought of dating again. She could manage to pretend that everything was okay, but she knew that romance would push it. She could hide mental instability in a relationship. Once, she had been one of the most popular girls at Beacon Hills High and boys often fought for her attention, sending her flowers and sappy love letters and boxes of chocolates, while Jackson sat there with a satisfied smirk, knowing that she would be his at the end of the day. She had forgotten how much she hated that entitled look on his smug face.

          She quickly jotted down a nonchalant ‘no’ and sent it flying back his way. Before he could catch it, the teacher announced in a booming, take-charge voice, “I’m going to pass this hat along and you are going to pick a poem from here. No trading, no second chances. This clipboard will be following close behind,” he raised a clipboard with a piece of lined paper on it. “Please write down your name and the title and author of the poem you drew. If I catch anyone attempting to trade, I will up your minimum page count to six. Understood?”

          A bored chorus of ‘yessir’ followed obediently and he set the hat and clipboard down on a desk two in front of Lydia and a feeling of dread settled in her stomach. Soon the dapper hat sat in front of her and she forced herself to get it done with, quickly grabbing a slip of paper from the top of the pile. The small Times New Roman font read ‘since feeling is first by e.e. Cummings.’ Lydia felt a stab of irritation. True, she didn’t have any particular plans that would be disrupted by writing this paper, but Cummings was one of her least favorite poets, if not the least favorite. His writing intentionally broke the rules, and every wrongful capitalization and missing comma felt like a personal offense.

          The rest of the class was a blur. She kept her head down and mechanically took the notes, word for word. She wanted nothing more but to go home, take a shower, and sleep through Valentine’s Day. She hadn’t even noticed Stiles attempting to catch her as she walked out of the classroom until he had called her name.

          “Hey! Wait up!” He called from the doorway. She made her way toward the wall to avoid causing traffic and gave him an expectant look. Quickly, he shoved past a group of sophomore skaters and caught up with her.

          “Since you said you didn’t have plans this weekend, do you wanna hang out and write our papers in-between shitty rom-coms?”

          Stiles’ favorite genre was sci-fi and comedy, but he had a soft spot for rom-coms. Of course, since becoming best friends with Lydia Martin, he was allowed to save grace with the werewolves and say that Lydia was making him watch them when it was actually him picking them three-fourths of the time. They had watched the Notebook more than either one of them would like to admit.

          “Sure, anything has to beat actually writing those essays,” she

          “Perfect,” he replied with his signature grin, like he still couldn’t believe that he was having a movie marathon with the Lydia Martin. “See you at my place, six o’clock sharp, kay?”

          She smiled in agreement. “You get the junk food, I’ll bring the movies.”

          “It’s a date,” he called out to her before he could stop him as he rushed off to his next class.

          The blood rushed to her face and she thought about Stiles for a moment. Sweet, dorky, sarcastic, spastic Stiles with his goofy grin and moments of clarity. She couldn’t deny that she found herself smiling and thinking of him at random intervals of her day, but who had time to think about this when the things that go bump in the night were out to get you? Maybe she misheard? She didn’t have time to think about it. Her AP Art class was next and she was falling behind on her portfolio.

 

*          *         *

 

          Lydia had meant to be there at exactly six o’clock. However, her mother had chosen tonight to play the role as the concerned mother and inquire about her weekend plans. Of course, during that time, Charlotte Martin was busy preparing for a date and using Lydia as a bouncing board for her outfit ideas. Eventually she was dressed in a gorgeous red dress that was the perfect mix of sexy and class with her hair up in a complicated chignon.

          Before heading out the door, she had told her daughter to ‘tell Stiles hi and wear protection.’ Admittedly, they had been spending a lot of time together lately but did everyone think that they were up to something? She was half way done composing a text to Allison when she remembered her best friend wouldn’t be able to answer it. All she would get that sinking nauseous guilty feeling and the ‘this number is no longer connected’ text that she had learned to despise over the past four months.

          She had sat in her car for a good half hour to think and cry a little about it. At this point, it wasn’t a depression thing. It was part of the mourning process and she had accepted it. It only happened every once in a while and she preferred to deal with them by herself and move on as logically as possible.

          When she finally arrived to Stiles’ house, he greets her, ready to tease her but one look at her face and he knows. He had never been around for one of her ‘incidents,’ as she called them, but he had seen her after. He just let her into the house and brought her to the living room where a table waited them with a large bowl of popcorn and several bags of candy bars.

          “So about those essays—” he started.

          “Fuck that shit,” she interrupted him, grabbing into her bag for the movies. She laid out five movies in front of him. “Pick one!”

          He examined them carefully. Only two of them had been released in theaters. The other three were obscure works done during the early years of big stars. They were, no doubt, filled with god-awful, laughter-worthy moments and that’s what she seemed to need. He picked one that obviously advertised a love triangle and put it into the DVD player. He was becoming good at reading her. Not too many people could say that.

          As they had both guessed, it was an absolutely shitty movie with little to no character development, shitty puns and clichéd lines, and unrealistic behaviors done in the name of love. And yet, neither of them were unable to take their eyes off of it.

          “Wow, this movie really sucks.” Lydia whispered during the third musical montage, her eyes still glued onto the screen. “So what were you assigned?”

          “‘She Walks in Beauty’ by Lord Byron,” he answered casually. “You?”

          “‘since feeling is first’ by e.e. Cummings,” she seethed.

          “Wow, it’s just a poem. What did it ever do to you?” She turned away from the screen to shoot him a dirty look. “Whoa, I’m not trying to take sides here. It’s just . . . I like that poem.”

          “Really? Wouldn’t have taken you for a poetry guy.”

          “Poetry fucking rocks. “ He cleared his throat and closed his eyes, his forehead wrinkling as though he were thinking very hard about something. “‘The best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids’ flutter which says we are for each other.’”

          “Why stop there?”

          “That’s my favorite line. It sums up the entire poem and the passion of love and its truth.”

          “How? Why do people romanticize fluttering eyelids and eyelashes? Also, did this guy not realize how fucking amazing the brain is? How much it thinks and contributes to love—”

          “See, that’s your problem!” he shouted. “You’re always thinking. It’s not about the words or the rules. If someone like you, someone’s whose mind goes a million miles an hour and spends every minute of her day thinking about their next move and then every little detail about everything, falls in love—if anyone falls in love—they need to learn that feelings are precious, they should not be second guessed and losing yourself is the only way to wholly appreciate love.” His voice had come down to a whisper so low she had to lean in to hear him over the movie. It felt intimate, his breath on her face and his lips so close.

          “It’s scary to lose yourself,” Lydia whispered back to him, her fingers brushing up against his. “You can’t think straight and the world becomes to blurry. Logic ceases to exist.” Did he know she was talking about him? The way she felt when he leaned in like this, when they were this close? How much she hated the way he made her feel so small and important all at once?

          “Haven’t you heard? ‘Kisses are better fate than wisdom,’”

          Five seconds of courage. She allowed herself this. Let’s say she listens to the advice of a man who chose to ignore all logic and rules, set before him. Would she learn something? Would she be enlightened? Or more importantly, what if she liked it?

          Five seconds pass so quickly as she closed the gap between them, their lips meeting. The second and third seconds are confusion but he chose to kiss her back. Then she ignored the five second idea and let it extend to ten then fifteen then twenty five and then she no longer knew how long she had been locking lips with Stiles.

          In that moment, a wave of clarity hit her like a lightning bolt. She had spent so much time thinking about the way her feelings would affect everything that she had ignored those feelings. She never got to enjoy liking Stiles and the way he made her world a little brighter. Letting go was scary but wasn’t it wonderful? This epiphany rocked her to her core and all she could think of was how she was going to kick that assignment’s ass—that is, after she had thoroughly and gratuitously made out with Stiles Stilinski. The sheer amount of joy she felt with his lips on hers, his hands wrapped around her waist, their heartbeat in sync, and her fingers entangled in his dark hair, it was enough to make her cry.

          “What are you thinking of?” he inquired between kisses.

          She took a moment to answer, savoring the moment and letting herself truly think about his question. “Indeed, ‘kisses _are_ better fate than wisdom.’”

          “Hey! I just used that line on you.”

          “What are you going to do about it? Kiss me?” she teased before he continued their kiss and they forgot all about their movie and English homework and Valentine's Day.


End file.
